


The Fire We Deserve

by ShivaStormrage



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Jesse McCree, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking to Cope, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Excessive Drinking, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Humor, Insomnia, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Recall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-10-20 23:16:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17631608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShivaStormrage/pseuds/ShivaStormrage
Summary: After answering the recall, McCree finds staying in one place again more difficult than he expected. When Genji’s brother Hanzo shows up, things get even more complicated, but not in the way he imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First work in this fandom and I'm super nervous but also excited to be working on something new! I started this a while before Reunion came out, so pretend that the events from the short never happened.
> 
> I want to thank [KingMobUK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingMobUK) for betaing for me again even though I jumped fandoms! You're the best :)
> 
> Also, big thanks to [Sireniix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sireniix), [flamingknickers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingknickers) and [AndroidPalindrome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndroidPalindrome) for their input and support!

McCree opens his eyes as he hears a noise to his right. It takes him a couple seconds to figure out it came from his cellphone on the night table. He’s exhausted and his bed feels especially comfortable at the moment so he considers ignoring it and going back to sleep, but remembers that he rarely gets messages unless it’s important. Groaning, he grabs the phone and takes a quick glance without unlocking it. It’s from Winston. Of course it is. He sleepily inputs his code and brings up the text.

_**03/31, 20:53 – Winston:**_  
_Sorry to message you guys so late._  
_Meeting at 2200. It won’t take long._

McCree drops the phone back onto the night table with a clang that almost makes him wince. He closes his eyes again, rubs the bridge of his nose. His head is about ready to explode and a meeting is the last thing he needs at the moment. So much for an early night.

Resigned, he slides out of bed, stretches his aching back and quickly slips on a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. If he’s going to be kept up, he might as well go for a smoke. He pockets his lighter and grabs a cigarillo from the case, then puts on his boots and hat before leaving his room. Heading down the hallway, he makes his way outside and goes to lean against the railing overlooking the sea. The sun is still setting, the sky a mix of reds and purples. It’s surprisingly chilly tonight and he briefly considers going back inside to get his serape, but decides against it – the cool air should help wake him up a bit.

Admiring the view, he takes out his lighter and gives it a few flicks. Damned thing is almost empty. He’ll have to remember to fill it up, unlike last time, and the time before that. Another flick finally does the trick and he lights his cigarillo, taking a long drag. The burn as the smoke hits the back of his throat feels good, calming. He turns his attention back to the horizon as he slowly exhales, his eyes focusing on a flock of seagulls near the lighthouse. A small breeze catches his neck as he turns his head to follow the birds and he shivers slightly. It’s not uncomfortable, though, he decides. The last few days have been warmer than normal and some fresh air might just be what he needs.

He takes another drag from his cigarillo, absently running a finger along the cold metal of the railing. It’s been three weeks since the recall and he’s still having trouble sleeping. Funny how he’s safer here than he’s been for the past five years and he’s somehow been unable to get a full night’s sleep since he arrived. His quarters keep bringing back memories from Blackwatch and he constantly needs to convince himself that this was a good idea – that coming back was the right thing to do. He’s still not sure why he and Genji were called back, considering they were never part of Overwatch proper, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t happy when he got that call.

McCree smiles as he recalls his conversation with Winston when he answered.

 _The world needs heroes again_ , Winston had said. His enthusiasm was something McCree had always found endearing and he had been unable to say no despite his reservations. He’d arrived in Gibraltar the next day, and to his surprise, he was the first one here. Lena had arrived the day after, followed by Reinhardt, Torbjörn and Angela the next week. Genji had showed up eight days ago, only to leave the next day, saying he’d be back.

Seeing everyone again was a welcome feeling, if a bit overwhelming. Five years on the run does things to a man, apparently. Not having to watch his back twenty-four-seven should be a good thing, and yet, it feels so foreign that the Watchpoint has him feeling like he’s suffocating most of the time.

He plucks the cigarillo from his lips and takes a deep breath. He can taste the salt in the air – another thing he’s not used to after three weeks. Getting used to things hasn’t been an option for a long time. The drifter life didn’t exactly allow him to linger in one place for more than a few days. Leaning further on the railing, he traces the outline of the skull on his prosthetic arm. A rush of nausea suddenly hits him and he squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. _Now’s not the time._

He brings the cigarillo back to his lips and turns his attention to the water, watching the waves as they hit the cliffside. The ebb and flow proves a good enough distraction and he quietly finishes his smoke before heading back inside.

As he makes his way towards the meeting room, McCree absently reaches for Peacekeeper, only to realise he doesn’t have it on him. He stops. It occurs to him that this is the first time he’s left his quarters without it. Maybe it’s the fatigue, or perhaps the paranoia is beginning to subside – probably the former. He briefly considers going back to get it, but decides he can’t be bothered and keeps walking.

A few minutes later, he’s sitting in the meeting room between Lena and Angela. Reinhardt and Torbjörn have been engaged in a heated discussion since they walked in and McCree is way too tired to follow so it’s little more than background noise as they wait for Winston to show up.

Reinhardt hasn’t changed at all. The old crusader is still as loud and enthusiastic as McCree remembers and his laugh is still as contagious. Even Torbjörn can’t keep a straight face despite constantly arguing with him, but considering the two have been friends for almost as long as McCree has been alive, it’s not exactly surprising.

Torbjörn hasn’t changed either, but McCree’s not sure if that’s a good thing – the engineer always had a talent for rubbing folks the wrong way. _Not bad for contraband_ , he’d said when he examined his prosthesis two weeks ago. And then he’d offered to improve it. _More like ruin it._ The bastard never did mind his own business.

Shaking his head, McCree turns to Lena, who’s absorbed in the two men’s conversation, laughing and nodding along. He never got a chance to really know her, given she’d joined just before everything went to shit, but if the past three weeks are anything to go by, McCree is convinced that it’s impossible to dislike her. Her whole being exudes kindness and positivity and McCree can’t help but smile at her expression.

A soft chuckle to his right gets his attention and he turns to see Angela reading something on her phone.

“What’s so funny?”

Angela blinks, turns to him, smiles. “Ah. Nothing. Just a theory someone posted about the cause of--” She cuts herself off and chuckles again. “You wouldn’t understand, but it makes no sense at all.”

McCree grins and pats her shoulder. “You would know; you’re the best,” he says, before leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head.

Angela gives him an amused look. “High praise coming from you, Jesse.”

“Yeah, well. It’s true.” He looks up at the ceiling for a moment. He’s so goddamned exhausted. “This better be important. Had to drag my ass outta bed.”

“Tired?” Angela asks.

McCree nods. “Could prolly fall asleep right here.” He lowers his hat slightly over his eyes, genuinely tempted to do just that.

Angela frowns. “Have you not been sleeping?”

“I’ll be fine, doc. Just a bit jet-lagged, is all.”

“After three weeks?”

McCree shrugs. Angela doesn’t press further. She knows it’s pointless. Besides lecturing him about his smoking habit, she gave up trying to reason with him a long time ago.

“Have you guys heard about the new recruits?” Lena chimes in, causing Reinhardt and Torbjörn to stop talking and turn their attention to her.

“You mean Hana Song and Lúcio?” Angela asks.

Lena nods. “Yeah. I think Winston said they’re joining us next week.”

“Is that what this is about?” McCree asks, annoyed that he’s somehow not in the loop. “If they ain’t joinin’ till next week, why’re we havin’ a meeting at fuckin’ 10 PM?”

“I see you still complain about everything,” Torbjörn replies with a pointed look.

Reinhardt bursts into laughter and slaps Torbjörn on the back. “Now look who’s talking!”

As they start another loud argument, the door suddenly slides open and Winston walks in, followed by Genji. The room goes silent. _Guess everyone’s as surprised as I am. Didn’t expect him back so soon._

“Well, if it ain’t my favorite cyborg ninja!” McCree exclaims, breaking the silence.

Genji laughs. “Good to see you too, McCree.” He gives a small bow and goes to sit across from Angela. He’s still wearing his full armor and helmet – he must have just gotten back to the Watchpoint. McCree almost hadn’t recognised him when he’d showed up in that new full-body armor eight days ago, but he’d put two and two together almost immediately because who else could it have been?

“Alright, guys,” Winston speaks up from his seat at the end of the table. “I apologise for the late meeting, but, uh… we have a bit of a situation.”

“I told you not to say it like that!” Genji cuts in, annoyance evident in his voice.

Winston looks sheepish. “Sorry, Genji, but this is kind of serious.”

“We have been over this already. Nothing is going to happen.”

“I’d still rather be safe than sorry.”

“What’s goin’ on?” McCree asks before Genji can retort. He’s not in the mood for this.

Winston turns to him, before looking back at Genji, who shakes his head.

Winston sighs. “Genji was in Japan for the past few days and, um… he may have asked his brother to join us.”

“What!?” come several voices, followed by “Are you serious?” and other comments that kind of blend together. All McCree can do is stare at Genji, and he suspects that’s the real reason the ninja is still wearing his visor. It’s easier if no one can see his expression. The two of them had had several conversations about Genji’s brother back in the Blackwatch days and none of them had been positive, for obvious reasons. McCree suddenly remembers the name: _Hanzo_. Genji had only said it once or twice – usually only referring to him as ‘my brother’ or ‘my older brother’ – but McCree had made a point of remembering, in case they ever crossed paths.

“This better be some kind of early April Fools,” McCree says, sitting up straight.

“I’m afraid not,” Winston replies. “I called this meeting because Genji explained the situation to me when he arrived and I wanted to make sure everyone stays alert.”

Genji huffs. “There you go again, insinuating my brother will show up in the middle of the night and murder everyone.”

“Can you blame him?” McCree asks. “Last I checked, if someone tries to kill you, you don’t invite ‘em over to your fuckin’ house.”

Genji turns to him. “He is my brother.”

“Even worse.”

“I know what I said to you, McCree, but that was a long time ago. I no longer hold that grudge.”

McCree frowns. He’d noticed the week before that Genji sounded different, but it’s even more obvious now. The bitterness in his voice is gone, replaced by something else instead – something calm, almost peaceful. It’s buried under feelings clearly brought on by the discussion, but it’s there nonetheless. McCree would be happy for him if it weren’t for the fact that he’s gone and invited his murderous brother to the Watchpoint.

“If Genji is sure,” Angela says, “I think we should trust his judgment.”

McCree turns to her. “Are you kidding me!? Remember what happened last time?” He can feel the anger bubbling up inside him as a speaks, images of Genji’s injuries and difficult recovery surfacing in his mind. “You brought him back to Switzerland in pieces and it took months for him to stop askin’ you to let him die.”

“Jesse!” Angela snaps.

“No, this is fuckin’ bullshit. I ain’t gonna sit here and let this asshole show up and--”

“ _Enough_!” Genji cuts in sharply. The room goes silent for the second time. “Let me explain.”

McCree sighs, but does not argue. As different as Genji sounds, he’s still the same man he knew all those years ago – he’s still his friend. He should probably give him more credit.

After a short pause, Genji reaches behind his helmet and unlocks his visor, which releases with a hiss. Removing it, he peers at McCree with an intensity he hasn’t seen in years – since the last time they talked about Hanzo.

“My brother… is not a bad man.” Genji finally speaks up, lowering his gaze.

McCree wants to object, point out how wrong that statement is, but he keeps his mouth shut. _Now’s not the time._

“After I left Blackwatch,” Genji continues, “I went back to Japan to dismantle my family’s empire. I was angry. I wanted revenge. Then I learned that my brother had left the clan. I tried to track him down, but he was always a step ahead of me.” He pauses, fiddles with his visor. “After several months, I reached a breaking point. I had nothing to live for. But then I met this omnic monk named Zenyatta. It took a long time, but he helped me find peace with who I am.” Only his eyes are visible, but McCree swears he can see a hint of a smile as Genji says that. “I eventually returned to Japan and found out that Hanzo visited our home every year on _that_ day. To pay his respects.”

There’s a sudden blur as McCree tries to reform the image of Hanzo his mind had created the first time he’d heard about what he did. The look on the man’s face is no longer wicked, but it’s in no way kind. No matter what Genji says, the Hanzo he sees is not a man he can trust. But the look Genji shoots him gives him pause – he loses focus and the man’s face goes blurry again. McCree yields. For now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, glancing down at the table, before looking back up at Genji. “If it’s important to you, I’ll make an effort not to put a bullet in his head the minute he shows up.”

Genji laughs at that. “Thank you, McCree.”

“Anytime.”

There’s a pause as the others just nod, saying nothing. McCree’s not surprised. Besides maybe Angela, no one knows Genji that well. They probably don’t want to get involved, especially after McCree’s outburst.

“So, uh…” Winston says hesitantly, “I guess that about covers it?” He looks around the table, making sure no one has anything to add, then nods. “Alright. Dismissed.”

McCree can’t help but be amused by Winston’s awkwardness. They’ve had several meetings in the past three weeks – mostly about improvements to the facilities – but it doesn’t seem to be getting any easier for him. He’s a scientist, not a leader, but McCree appreciates his commitment.

Getting up from his seat, McCree tips his hat at no one in particular and heads out the door into the hallway. If he was tired before, now he’s drained, but something tells him he won’t be able to go back to sleep without a little help from his old friend Jim Beam. Too many things are going through his mind – questions he doesn’t have answers for, answers he doesn’t understand, answers that prompt more questions. He just needs to drown all that out and pass out. He can worry about those things tomorrow, when his head isn’t threatening to explode.

When his thoughts aren’t so focused on the faceless man who nearly killed his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> Come hang out on Twitter @ [ShivaStormrage](https://twitter.com/ShivaStormrage)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [KingMobUK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingMobUK) for betaing for me as always!

McCree wakes up with a groan. He’s not sure when he fell asleep, but judging from the dryness in his mouth, it was probably after a substantial amount of bourbon. Slowly, he cracks one eye open, then shuts it immediately as daylight threatens to split his head in half. He needs to stop doing this, but hangovers are better than no sleep at all. Maybe he should suck it up and ask Angela for some sleeping pills.

He rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face in his pillow. His neck hurts. He reaches up with his hand and rubs, but it doesn’t really help. He’s going to need some painkillers. And water. Lots of water. Sniffing, he props himself up on his elbows and cautiously opens his eyes. He takes a moment to let them adjust, then pushes up to sit on the edge of the bed and looks around the room.

The floor is covered in dirty clothes, the trash can is full, the ashtray is overflowing and several empty bottles sit on the dresser. He’s not sure if he’s gotten lazy or if it’s just that it’s the first time in years that he’s had the opportunity to have a place look lived in. Probably a bit of both. It’s starting to look less lived in and more like a dump, though, so cleaning up might be a good idea. But first, he needs a shower.

McCree heads into the bathroom and showers quickly, then gives his beard a small trim. He lingers in front of the mirror for a moment, inspecting the dark circles under his eyes. _I look like shit._ He sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair. He’s still not sure how he feels about the recall. On one hand, having a safe place to live is a welcome change, but he can’t help but feel like he’s stuck here. Nothing has happened in the past three weeks besides boring meetings and Winston has asked everyone to minimise their trips to town to avoid unwanted attention on the Watchpoint. McCree’s not used to staying in one place and he desperately needs some action. At least Winston promised that the shooting range would be ready this week, so maybe he should just give it some time.

Shaking his head, McCree walks out of the bathroom and finds some clean clothes to wear, then dumps the contents of the ashtray and trash can in a garbage bag. He picks up the dirty clothes and puts them in the laundry basket, then gathers as many bottles as he can carry before making his way to the mess hall. After dropping the bottles in the recycling bin, he opens the medical supply drawer and grabs some painkillers. He pours himself a glass of water, swallows the pills and downs the rest of the glass. Still not feeling quite awake, he eyes the coffee machine but reminds himself that coffee would just make his headache worse, so he pours himself more water instead and stalks over to one of the tables.

Sitting down, he takes out his phone and checks the time. 9:41. No wonder the mess hall is empty. At least he got a decent amount of sleep for once. Not that it makes a difference with this hangover, but still. He puts his phone down on the table and takes a sip of water, trying to decide if he should eat something. He’s starving but he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep the food down. _Fuck it_ , he decides. He gets up and heads into the kitchen to make some scrambled eggs.

As he walks back to his table, plate in hand, McCree sees Genji entering the mess hall. He’s not wearing his armor and looks a lot more like McCree remembers him: black spiky hair, baby face, left arm covered in scars but otherwise intact. He’s wearing track pants and a black hoodie with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. McCree guesses he just came back from a run.

“Howdy,” he greets, sitting down with his food.

Genji gives him a small nod and goes to get some water, before walking back to the table and plopping down across from him. “You look like shit, cowboy,” he comments with a smirk.

McCree chuckles through a mouthful of eggs. “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

Genji seems to consider for a moment, before taking a sip of his water. “He might not come.”

“What?” McCree asks, not sure he’s following.

“My brother. I let him know where to find me, but in the end, it’s his decision.”

McCree stares down at his plate, suddenly not hungry. He’d been trying to push last night’s conversation to the back of his mind. _Guess it can’t be helped._

“Look, Genji…”

“I know how you feel, McCree. If I were to meet someone who hurt you, I would feel the same way.”

“ _Hurt_ me?” McCree cuts in, incredulous. “Look at you!”

Genji sighs. “I know what he did. But he is my brother and--”

McCree opens his mouth to retort but Genji holds up a hand. “Let me finish.” McCree rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest.

“I truly believe that there is hope for him,” Genji continues, something wistful in his voice. “I followed him to Shimada Castle for the past three years and saw him risk his life to honor me. I saw the pain in his eyes. He is a broken man.”

McCree snorts. “Yeah. Tends to happen when you murder your own brother.”

“He was only following orders,” Genji replies, matter-of-fact. “Just like we did in Blackwatch.”

McCree bristles. “The hell!? It ain’t the same, Genji! We only killed bad guys. If I was ordered to kill you, I sure as hell wouldn’t have done it.”

“So you never killed innocent people when you were in Deadlock?”

 _Oh, hell no_. “Don’t you fuckin’ go there, Shimada,” McCree warns, glaring. Back in the day, Genji could be a real asshole when he wanted to be, and it seems as though that hasn’t changed. McCree wants to say more, but the words won’t come. It takes all his willpower not to get up and punch the bastard in the face.

Genji just looks at him for a moment, scrutinising. “You get my point,” he finally says, dryly, getting up from his seat. He goes to put his glass on the counter and leaves the mess hall without looking back, leaving McCree to seethe in the empty room. He suddenly realises that his face is burning and his headache is back tenfold.

“Goddamn it,” McCree mutters under his breath, dropping his fork on his plate with a clank. He’s definitely not hungry now. Only Genji could manage to turn a friendly chat into _this_ in a matter of seconds. The ninja might sound happier now, but he hasn’t changed one bit – he’s still a stubborn little shit. Why does he care so much about other people accepting his brother? McCree bites his lip. _Fuck this_. He needs a smoke.

He leaves the mess hall without bothering with his dishes and heads outside. He feels the cool morning air as soon as he steps out on the walkway and he’s glad he didn’t forget his serape this time – and Peacekeeper, because now that a murderer might show up at any moment, you can never be too careful. McCree takes out a cigarillo and lights it. He takes a long pull, savoring the strong flavour, before slowly exhaling and watching the smoke blow away with the breeze. His eyes then settle on the horizon, only half focusing as the exchange with Genji replays in his mind.

 _He was only following orders._ McCree scoffs. How messed up do you have to be to follow an order like that? Clearly, Hanzo Shimada is not right in the head.

 _He is a broken man._ “No shit,” he mutters, chewing on his cigarillo.

 _You get my point._ As much as McCree hates to admit it, he does. Sometimes he still wonders why Reyes gave him a second chance twenty years ago. On good days, he tells himself that Reyes saw good in him. On bad days, he figures it was just because he was a good shot, nothing more. McCree takes Peacekeeper out of its holster and runs a metal finger along the barrel, before letting out a sigh. He can’t remember the last time the good days outweighed the bad.

 _I’m a goddamned hypocrite_ , he realises. All this time, he’s been demonising Genji’s brother when he’s frankly not any better. He might not have killed his own brother, but he never questioned his orders when instructed to kill anyone that got in the way of whatever heist or trade Deadlock was carrying out. Orders were orders.

Shaking his head, McCree holsters Peacekeeper and leans over the railing, looking down at the rocks below. He remembers that he promised Genji he’d make an effort last night, so maybe he should withhold his judgment until his brother actually shows up – if he ever does.

– – –

Two days later, the shooting range is ready. McCree heads there as soon as he sees Winston’s message and he has to admit it’s impressive. It’s much bigger than one would expect a space carved into a cliffside to be – reinforced rock walls surround the range on three sides, while the back wall is open and overlooks the sea. Several bots line the edges and can be programmed to perform different movements using the corresponding control panels. There are also multiple platforms to practice shooting from high ground, and more bots are located high up to simulate snipers and aerial targets.

McCree walks up to a control panel and logs in.

“Welcome, Agent McCree,” Athena greets him. “What would you like to practice this morning?”

“Err…” McCree hesitates. He still feels awkward speaking to the AI for some reason. “Can you set up six moving targets?”

“Understood,” Athena replies.

Six bots move to McCree’s assigned shooting area and start pacing back and forth, mimicking patrolling guards. McCree fans the hammer and takes them all down with one cylinder. It’s nice to know he hasn’t lost his touch even though he hasn’t been able to practice at all in the past three weeks. He reloads, asks Athena to reset the targets and repeats the same feat two more times. He nods to himself, satisfied.

“Hey, Athena. Any way you can make this a bit more challenging?”

“Of course, Agent McCree.”

The floor in the allotted area suddenly opens up and ramps come out to form a makeshift structure. The bots start moving faster, up and down the ramps in erratic motions. Fanning the hammer is not really an option so McCree takes them down one or two at a time, doing his best to track the unpredictable movements. He keeps practicing for another hour or so, changing the settings every few rounds. By the time he logs out, it’s already past noon.

He vaguely wonders why no one else has shown up, but remembers that the others have been pretty busy: Winston is always in his lab working on something or other, Torbjörn has been making new turrets to improve the Watchpoint’s security, Angela is in the medbay doing ‘doctor stuff he wouldn’t understand’ and Reinhardt can usually be found in the gym. Genji, McCree discovered, spends most of his mornings meditating and Lena is usually found running laps around the tarmac or playing a flight simulation game in the rec room. McCree figures he’ll see some of them down here eventually – once missions start rolling out, practice will become a requirement.

He makes his way up to the mess hall to grab some lunch and is pleased to find that Reinhardt has made some kind of stew for everyone. It’s apparently an old family recipe and McCree can’t pronounce the name but he couldn’t care less – it tastes good and that’s all that matters. He finishes his food, excuses himself and goes back to his quarters, stopping by the laundry room to retrieve his clothes that he finally got around to washing.

Sitting on his bed, he starts folding his laundry. Most of his flannel shirts are getting old – some of them have been mended several times after getting slashed or shot during fights and some are frayed along the edges. He’ll need to replace them eventually but going shopping isn’t exactly high on his priority list. If he could get his shit together first, that would be great. No matter how hard McCree tries to feel at home, it’s just not the same as it was in Blackwatch. Sure, he’s surrounded by old friends, but he finds they mostly serve as a reminder that something is missing.

McCree puts the shirt he just finished folding on top of the pile and eyes the bottle of bourbon on his dresser. _Now’s not the time, vaquero._

“Like hell it ain’t.”

He gets up and pours himself a glass, downs it, then pours another. He stares at the amber liquid for a moment, swirling it around in the glass, then lets out a wry laugh. _I’m so fucking pathetic._ His throat still burns but he forces the second glass down anyway, almost gags, grimaces, then slams the glass back down on the dresser. Here he is, drinking alone in his room in the middle of the day. All because he’s unable to let go of the past. He sits back down, finishes folding his laundry, puts it away and decides he needs a nap – if he sleeps, he won’t have to think.

– – –

His nap ends up much longer than he intended – when McCree groggily checks his phone, it reads 19:38.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he grumbles, running a hand over his face. The last thing he needed was to fuck up his sleep schedule even more. He considers drinking himself back to sleep so he can wake up at a reasonable hour but even he knows that’s not a good idea.

He gets out of bed, goes to the bathroom, comes back and lights a cigarillo. _I need to stop doing this_ , he tells himself for the thousandth time. But what else is he supposed to do? Leave? Go back to being chased day and night by bounty hunters? He exhales slowly and frowns. _Fuck that._ All he can do is cope as best he can until things get better. The shooting range is a start – practice this morning had managed to lift his spirits long enough for him to enjoy lunch with the others. He’d even laughed at some of Reinhardt’s terrible jokes. But then he’d gone back to his routine and… here he is, slightly hungover after sleeping all day.

Maybe he should socialise more, like he used to – that’s another way to stop thinking. It’s not as if the others are intentionally bringing up old ghosts. But they are, nonetheless, and he can’t help but feel like it’s his fault; he can see it in their eyes when they look at him – something between reproach and pity. Maybe he’s imagining it, but he’s certainly not about to ask, so he just pretends not to notice and acts like he’s expected to: like Jesse McCree, the resident loudmouthed cowboy.

He scoffs, takes one last drag from his cigarillo, then stubs it out in the ashtray. He holds the smoke in for a bit, trying not to laugh at the irony: he’d always been good at telling when folks were putting up a façade and he’d always hated it. They were weak, dishonest. They were cowards. McCree shakes his head, letting the smoke out in one sharp breath. _Guess I’m all of those things now._

Picking up his phone, he checks the time again. 19:49. He definitely missed dinner and leftovers don’t sound very appealing at the moment. McCree considers his options briefly, before deciding he’s going out. He knows he’s not supposed to, especially without telling Winston, but he hasn’t left the Watchpoint once since he arrived and he can feel he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown. He needs air, he needs a long walk, and more importantly, he needs something to focus on that won’t constantly remind him of everything he lost.

After putting on his discarded jeans and brown flannel shirt from earlier, he dons his boots and hat, hides Peacekeeper in a shoulder holster under his serape and leaves his room. Thankfully, the hallway is clear so he goes straight outside at the end of the corridor, crosses the walkway towards the comm tower, then takes the stairs down to the tarmac. From there, he walks past the parking garage and down the path that leads to the road. In the distance, the brightest lights from the city can be seen through the late sunlight. McCree takes a deep breath, letting the cool evening air soothe him. He feels better already.

– – –

Digging in his wallet, McCree takes out the amount needed to pay for his meal, adds a generous tip and gets up from his seat. He’d missed Mexican food and he’d definitely be coming back here for more quesadillas and birria. Thankfully, no one in the restaurant had recognised him and he’d even allowed himself to flirt with the waitress a bit. It was a refreshing change of pace and he almost felt like himself again. He’s not sure why he’d been so paranoid before – the chances of being recognised in Gibraltar are low, especially at this hour, and he should have snuck out of the Watchpoint earlier.

There’s a good chance that Athena noticed his departure and notified Winston, but he hasn’t received any texts so at least no one is panicking. If he gets in trouble later, he can deal with it then, but for now, he’s enjoying his night out. Funny how he’d longed for company for the past five years but spending the night wandering alone in the city has proved more pleasant than any time spent with his old friends. Something about people having no expectations is freeing – he can act however he wants without the fear of getting side-eyed, something he finds he hasn’t experienced in a long time despite all those years spent alone. It’s as if seeing the others after so long has reignited this old fire inside of him – a fire quickly smothered by too much attention all at once. If he takes it slow, maybe he’ll get used to it again.

As he leaves the restaurant, McCree goes to lean against the pole of a nearby street lamp and silently watches the entrance, just in case. After he’s satisfied that no one is following him, he decides he’s in no rush to get back to the Watchpoint so he sets off towards a bar he’d spotted earlier. He can’t let his guard down, but one drink won’t hurt. It’s now past eleven and the wind seems to have picked up, forcing him to hold onto his hat as a gust from the alley he’s walking past threatens to blow it away. Shivering, he wraps his serape a bit more snugly around his neck and looks up to see the bar’s saloon-style sign come into view a couple blocks down. He picks up his pace slightly, eager to get out of the cold. The hour-long walk back to the Watchpoint is going to suck.

Warmth and old country music envelop him as soon as he steps inside and he lets out a satisfied breath. Saloon doors separate the entryway and the main room and McCree peers over them, taking in the long, polished bar that runs the width of the back wall. Pushing the doors open, he makes his way to the stool closest to the door, sits down and orders a bourbon – neat.

He turns to glance around the room: there’s a pool table in the middle, surrounded by several round wooden tables. Some of the chairs have been moved around, leaving some tables with no seats while others have people practically sitting on top of each other. Most of the patrons are older men – this isn’t where the cool kids hang out, apparently. A quick scan reveals no immediate threats so McCree lets his eyes wander around a bit more: oil lamps hang from the ceiling, there are barrels stacked in the far corner and three buck heads line the wall opposite the bar. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think he’s back in Santa Fe.

“Here you go, sir.”

McCree turns back around, puts down a bill on the bar and picks up his drink. He takes a sip. It’s not Jim Beam but it’s not bad – not too sweet, with just the right amount of oak. It goes down smoothly, leaving a pleasant burn in his throat. He takes another sip, thinking back on his evening. It was fun, but he knows he can’t do this too often – Winston wouldn’t allow it and it would also increase his chances of being recognised. He definitely doesn’t need that.

As he lifts the glass up to his lips, he notices someone looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head to see an older man in a leather jacket shooting him a scrutinising look from his seat a couple stools over.

“Can I help you, pardner?” McCree says, hoping the man will stop staring and go back to minding his own business.

Instead, the man gets up, walks over and sits down next to him. “What’s a cowboy doing around here?” he asks with a smirk.

McCree takes a sip, then lifts his glass, tilting it towards the room. “Well, y’see, we’re in a saloon so I figured I’d complete the décor.”

The man snorts. “Funny.” He takes a swig of his beer, before slamming the bottle down onto the bar. “Could’ve sworn I’ve seen your face before.”

_Fuck._

A familiar feeling rises within McCree. His eyes dart towards the exit, then back to the other man’s hands, which are still in view. He looks over the man’s shoulder at the rest of the bar, then quickly scans the tables. No one else is looking at him. He’s about to plan his next move when the man opens his mouth again.

“Are you an actor?”

McCree blinks. “What?”

“You look familiar. Have I seen you in a movie or something? Is this, err…” He gestures at McCree. “What do you call it? Method acting?”

It takes a moment for the man’s words to register, but then it clicks and McCree feels the panic dissipate as quickly as it had appeared. _False alarm._

“Naw, that’s, uh… I do line dance. We wear this kind of getup.”

The man seems to buy it. He nods, looking slightly disappointed.

McCree grins. “Sorry, no autograph for ya, I’m afraid.”

The man laughs. “Just thought I’d ask. You never know.”

McCree nods, then turns back to face the bar. He takes a big gulp of bourbon, deciding he should finish his drink quickly and get out before someone recognises him for real. This might have been a false alarm, but it still managed to ruin his peace of mind. Thankfully, the other man leaves him alone and McCree quietly finishes his drink, gets up with a tip of his hat and heads towards the exit.

A rush of cold air greets him as he steps out into the street. It’s uncomfortable, but his frayed nerves give him focus: get back to the Watchpoint. A few hours ago, he’d wanted out of there at all costs and now all he can think about is locking himself in his room. One peaceful night was too much to ask, apparently.

McCree keeps walking, eyes peeled, alert, until he finally reaches the path leading up to the base. He pauses, taking out his phone. It’s 0:43 and still no messages. He hopes that’s a good sign because he’s in no mood to deal with anyone at the moment. Pocketing the device, he follows the path up to the parking garage and crosses the tarmac. As he’s about to walk up the stairs, a flash of gold catches his eye. He looks up.

There, on top of the building, is a man in black with what appears to be a gold scarf fluttering in the wind. McCree’s mind instantly screams _assassin_ and he reaches for Peacekeeper, remembers too late that it’s at his shoulder, not his hip, and when he finally pulls it out, his body crashes to the ground, his gun clattering out of his hand. When he opens his eyes, he’s met with an icy glare that sends a chill down his spine. The man has him pinned to the ground, an arm across his throat.

“Where is Genji?” he snarls.

That’s when McCree understands. The man on top of him is not an assassin, but he’s not sure if the truth is better or worse. This man – definitely not faceless anymore – is none other than Hanzo Shimada.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> Come hang out on Twitter @ [ShivaStormrage](https://twitter.com/ShivaStormrage)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments so far ♥  
> Also, sorry about the cliffhanger! This picks up right where Chapter 2 ended!  
> Big thanks to my beta [KingMobUK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingMobUK) as usual <3

McCree doesn’t know how to answer. Is Hanzo here to join them or is he here to finish the job he started ten years ago? Considering it looks like he’s ready to choke him to death, the latter seems more plausible. If that’s the case, telling him where Genji is probably isn’t a good idea. He opens his mouth to tell him to go to hell, but only manages a choking noise as the arm on his throat pushes down harder.

“Where. Is. Genji.” Hanzo repeats, punctuating each word with a bit more pressure.

Damn it. It’s as if the man had read his mind.

McCree tries to free himself, tries to push Hanzo off of him, tries to twist his right arm out of his grip, but it’s no use. His whole body is pinned to the ground and all he can do is squirm, completely helpless. The more he moves, the more pressure he feels, and suddenly, he can’t breathe. Panicking, he attempts to create some space between the arm and his neck, his eyes watering as he tries to sink deeper into the ground.

He’s about ready to accept his fate when the weight on his throat suddenly lifts, allowing him to gasp for air.

“Answer me!” Hanzo growls, so close McCree can feel his breath on his face.

“Wait,” McCree croaks between coughs, still struggling to breathe. “Gimme a minute, will ya?”

Hanzo doesn’t move and McCree knows he’s in no position to negotiate, but he has to be smart about this or both he and Genji could end up dead. He takes a deep breath and looks up, his eyes focusing on the man above him. The icy glare is still very much in place and McCree finds he can’t look away for fear of Hanzo’s reaction should he break eye contact.

“Whaddaya want with Genji?” McCree asks, bracing himself.

Hanzo’s frown deepens and he presses down with his forearm slightly, a warning. “That is none of your business. Answer my question.”

“Pretty sure it’s my business if you’re here to kill my best friend.”

That gets a reaction. Hanzo’s eyes widen and McCree can feel his body stiffen above his for a second, but then the glare is back and his right arm is being twisted at a painful angle against the concrete.

McCree winces. “The fuck’s your problem?”

“I am not here to kill Genji,” Hanzo hisses. “How could you even suggest that?”

“You failed before. Figured you’d come to finish the job.”

Bad move. Before McCree can see it coming, a fist crashes into the side of his face, sending ripples of pain through his jaw and down his neck.

“You know _nothing_!” Hanzo barks, placing his arm back over his throat.

McCree runs his tongue over his bottom lip and he’s pretty sure he can taste blood. “Fuckin’ hell…”

“Tell me where he is.”

“And what if I don’t? You gonna kill me?”

Hanzo twitches, clearly not liking the challenging tone. He hesitates for a moment, his eyes searching McCree’s face for _something_ , and then he sighs, defeated. “Are you…” He pauses, averts his eyes. “Are you really Genji’s friend?”

“His _best_ friend,” McCree reiterates. “Pretty sure he won’t be too happy with you if you kill me.”

Hanzo says nothing. His grip loosens ever so slightly but he makes no move to get off of him. His face is only a few inches away and now that he’s finally calmed down, McCree can get a good look at him for the first time.

He’d always pictured Hanzo as an older, meaner version of Genji, but now he finds that the brothers look nothing alike. Hanzo’s eyes are bigger, more expressive, and everything about his face is sharper: high cheekbones, strong nose, full, defined lips and a sharp, masculine jaw. His hair is long, pulled back into a high ponytail with a gold scarf, and wisps of grey line his temples. The most obvious difference, however, is the neatly trimmed beard that frames his jawline and mouth. Hanzo Shimada is worlds apart from his brother’s baby face and McCree finds he’s actually quite attractive.

A good minute later, Hanzo still hasn’t moved. He’s staring at the ground, seemingly deep in thought.

McCree clears his throat. “You gonna get off me or what?”

Hanzo’s eyes snap back to him, and a second later, he’s getting up and walking over to retrieve Peacekeeper, probably not trusting McCree not to grab it and shoot him as soon as he gets the chance. McCree pushes off the ground, picks up his hat, rises to his feet. Hanzo takes a few steps back, eyeing him cautiously, Peacekeeper clutched tightly in his right hand. The first thing that catches McCree’s eye is the massive tattoo that covers his entire left arm and part of his chest. He can make out what looks like scales and some kind of gold pattern but he can’t see very well in this lighting. Then another thought hits him: why is Hanzo walking around with his whole left side exposed? That leads to another realisation: the man is _ripped_. No wonder he couldn’t move a muscle.

The silence drags on, neither of them saying anything; just sizing each other up. McCree realises he’s been fiddling with his hat and puts it back on. Hanzo pulls a strange face, like he can’t quite believe what he’s looking at.

“What’s the matter, darlin’? Never seen a cowboy before?”

Hanzo glares. “Do _not_ mock me.”

His voice has a dangerous edge to it and McCree realises he probably shouldn’t be joking around with a man who was ready to kill him just moments ago. He lifts his hands in surrender and puts on his best apologetic face. Hanzo still doesn’t move but looks satisfied with the silent apology, his gaze softening. McCree drops his hands and tries again.

“Think I could get my gun back?”

Hanzo looks down at the six-shooter in his hand, seems to ponder for a moment. “After you tell me where Genji is.”

McCree rolls his eyes. “Look. It’s like 1 AM, he’s prolly sleepin’.”

“I do not care.”

_It’s like talkin’ to a fuckin’ child._

“Alright, how ‘bout this…” McCree slips his hand in his pocket and slowly pulls out his phone, careful not to make any sudden movements. “I’ll message Genji and you give me back my gun. Deal?”

Hanzo studies his face for a moment, before giving a small nod.

McCree unlocks his phone, opens his contact list, hesitates, then looks up at Hanzo. There’s no guarantee the man will keep his word, and even if he does, there’s a giant bow slung over his shoulder. Calling Genji out here alone would be unwise.

McCree turns his attention back to his phone, scrolls all the way down to Winston, types a message and hits send:

**_04/04, 0:57 – McCree:_**  
_Hanzo is here. Wants to see Genji. Not sure what to do._  
_Don’t do anything rash, he’s armed._

He looks back up at Hanzo, who’s looking on expectantly. “Alright, it’s sent. Gun, please.”

Hanzo looks hesitant, but he still takes a few steps towards McCree, stops at arm’s length and holds out Peacekeeper. McCree takes it, tips his hat, and then there’s the sound of a door opening and Hanzo spins around, drawing his bow in one swift motion. Winston appears on the walkway above them, Tesla Cannon in hand. So much for not doing anything rash.

“McCree! Are you okay?”

“All good,” McCree answers. “Put that thing away. I’ve got this under control.” He loosely tilts Peacekeeper in Hanzo’s direction to emphasise his point.

Winston doesn’t seem convinced. He looks over at Hanzo, who’s aiming at him. “Drop your weapon!” he orders.

Hanzo is clearly agitated, like a rabbit trapped between two predators – a far cry from his previous demeanor. “You tricked me!” he hisses, sending a glare McCree’s way, bow still trained on Winston.

“Hey, now. It ain’t like that,” McCree says, doing his best to sound reassuring. “We’ll get Genji. We just need to make sure you’re not a threat.”

Hanzo huffs. “This is ridiculous. I am here because he asked me to come.”

“Then drop your bow and we’ll get him,” McCree replies. At Hanzo’s doubtful look, he adds, “I promise.”

That seems to do the trick. Hanzo gives in; he slowly lowers his bow and puts the arrow back in his quiver, his eyes never leaving McCree’s. For the first time, McCree notices the height difference. Hanzo is short – about the same height as Genji – but his silhouette is so imposing that it had been easy to miss. A surge of embarrassment suddenly washes over McCree. _I got my ass kicked by a half pint._

He quickly dismisses the thought and motions for Hanzo to follow him. They make their way up the stairs and across the walkway. Hanzo suddenly stops, eyeing Winston warily. _Understandable, McCree muses. It ain’t every day you see a talking gorilla in a space suit and glasses._

“I will wait out here,” Hanzo says, strapping his bow back on. “I am clearly not welcome and I only wish to see my brother.”

“Very well,” Winston replies. “I’ll go get Genji.” He turns to McCree. “Wait here with him.”

_Guess I don’t have a choice._

McCree nods and watches Winston make his way back inside, before turning to Hanzo, who’s standing awkwardly on the walkway. Now that they’re closer to the lights, McCree can make out more of the tattoo. The scales belong to a dragon – its head sits at Hanzo’s wrist and its body wraps around his entire arm, ending in a tufted tail on his left pectoral. McCree remembers Genji telling him about his family having the ability to control spirit dragons. He’d dismissed it as bullshit until he’d seen Genji summon a green dragon with his katana in the middle of a fight. That had been a shock and a half. _I reckon his brother can do it too._

Looking up from the tattoo, McCree catches Hanzo staring at him with the deepest scowl he’s ever seen. He looks like the kind of man who’s never smiled once in his life. Maybe McCree’s original image of him hadn’t been so far off after all.

“Nice tattoo,” McCree offers, figuring he should at least say something, seeing as he’d spent the last minute staring at it.

Hanzo merely scoffs, crossing his arms.

_Good talk._

“It’s funny,” McCree begins again, turning Peacekeeper over in his hand to inspect it for scuffs, “Genji used to--”

“ _Silence_!” Hanzo cuts in sharply, causing McCree to flinch. “I have no time for your mindless chatter.”

McCree looks back up at him, eyebrow raised. “Well, ain’t you just a peach?”

Hanzo’s lips curl in disgust and McCree can’t help but laugh. “Y’know, it wouldn’t kill you to act like a normal human being.”

“Says the man dressed as a cowboy,” Hanzo replies flatly.

“Yeah? You’re one to talk with your,” he gestures at Hanzo’s clothes with his free hand, “whatever that is.”

Hanzo glances down at himself, before giving McCree a haughty look. “These are traditional garments designed to maximise my combat efficiency. Something you would not understand.”

McCree opens his mouth to retort, but he’s got nothing. The embarrassment from earlier comes rushing back in full force, leaving him powerless under Hanzo’s gaze, and damn it, that shouldn’t be possible. Hanzo is smirking now, probably realising that he’s won, and McCree has a mind to put a bullet in his fucking head. Instead, he puts Peacekeeper back in its holster and takes out a cigarillo. Might as well play it cool.

He brings the cigarillo to his mouth and immediately winces. Right. The punch. Must have busted his lip. He runs his tongue along it and finds the cut. It stings like a bitch and the coppery taste of blood makes him seethe all over again. He looks back at Hanzo, who’s still looking way too smug. Sadistic bastard must enjoy seeing others suffer.

“You don’t gotta look so proud o’ yourself,” McCree says. “You caught me by surprise, creepin’ on the roof like a goddamned ninja.”

Hanzo scoffs. “You should be more aware of your surroundings.”

_Fuck you_ , McCree thinks. He’s always prided himself on being alert – that’s how he’s survived all this time. Hanzo doesn’t know what he’s fucking talking about. Shaking his head, McCree puts the cigarillo in the opposite corner of his mouth and lights it. He takes a long pull, focusing on the flavours of cedar and burnt coffee to get the taste of blood out of his mouth. He makes a point not to look at Hanzo – if he sees that smirk again, he might be tempted to introduce it to his fist, and that probably wouldn’t end well. His eyes focus on the railing instead and he smokes quietly, not wanting to provoke any more gibes.

A few minutes later, the door opens again and Genji runs out, dressed only in a pair of sweatpants. He stops when he sees Hanzo on the walkway. “ _Anija_!” he calls, followed by a string of Japanese McCree doesn’t understand. Hanzo looks shocked; he stares at Genji, wide-eyed, like he’s seen a ghost. Genji walks up to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, says a few more words, and Hanzo’s expression changes to something softer. Relief, maybe. McCree can’t tell for sure.

After a short silence, Hanzo finally responds. McCree picks out the words ‘Genji’, ‘Hanamura’ and what sounds like a heavily accented ‘Gibraltar’ but everything else is lost on him. What he does hear, however, is the difference in Hanzo’s tone from when he was talking to him earlier. He sounds almost _fond_ now and McCree quickly decides that he deserved that punch after accusing him of wanting to kill Genji. Hanzo still looks unsure, but it’s clear that he’s got nothing but affection for his brother. Genji was right: _nothing is going to happen._

The two of them keep talking and McCree suddenly feels like he’s intruding. He makes a move to go back in, but Genji calls his name and beckons him over. McCree hesitates, then walks up to the pair, tipping his hat as if he hadn’t been standing there the whole time. Hanzo’s expression shifts again, like he’s putting on a mask, and McCree rolls his eyes. What’s his problem with him, anyway? Hanzo’s the one who attacked him, not the other way around.

Genji eyes McCree for a moment, seems to notice his split lip. “Looks like you two have already met,” he says, sounding somewhat uncomfortable.

McCree plucks the cigarillo from his mouth and taps off the ash. “Sadly.”

Hanzo looks unimpressed. He turns to Genji and says something in Japanese, to which Genji chuckles.

“Y’know, it’s rude to talk about someone who’s standin’ right in front o’ you,” McCree scolds, before taking another drag from his cigarillo.

Genji looks at him again, a smirk on his face. “He was just commenting on my fine taste in friends.”

“I said no such thing!” Hanzo retorts, glaring at both of them.

McCree laughs as he exhales the smoke. “Trust me, I believe ya.”

“Anyway,” Genji continues, turning to Hanzo. “This is my friend McCree. He may not look it, but he’s a good man.”

McCree snorts. “What’s that s’posed to mean, you lil’ shit?”

Genji laughs, gestures up and down with his hand. “Do you ever look in the mirror?”

“Hey, fuck you. The ladies like me just fine.”

“Yes, because they like bad boys.”

McCree grins. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“So you admit that you--”

“ _Urusai_!” Hanzo barks, interrupting their banter. McCree knows that word – Genji would use it back in the day when he’d had enough of McCree and Reyes’ arguing, which was basically a daily occurrence. But the way Hanzo says it is a lot more commanding – almost intimidating. While it was easy to playfully wave off Genji’s outbursts, something in Hanzo’s voice makes it seem like a bad idea.

After a moment, Genji sighs. “You are not making this easy, brother.”

Hanzo scowls. “I did not come here to make friends. I came here for you.”

“And McCree is my friend. If you wish to join me, you can’t act like this. I’m not the only one here, Hanzo.”

“I did not say anything about joining you.”

“Then why are you here?” Genji asks sternly. “Why come all the way here if not to fight by my side?”

Hanzo’s expression turns somber and he quickly averts his eyes, before mumbling something in Japanese. Sadness seems to flicker on Genji’s face, but then traces of a smile appear on his lips. He puts his hands on Hanzo’s shoulders and says a few words, his voice softer than McCree has ever heard it. There’s silence for a moment, then Hanzo nods slowly.

“ _Arigato_ ,” Genji says, before turning his head to look at McCree. “Can you ask Winston to prepare a room for my brother?”

McCree raises an eyebrow, unsure of what just happened. He’s got a lot of questions, but the subject seems too touchy at the moment. Instead, he asks, “Do I look like your errand boy?”

Genji rolls his eyes. “ _McCree_.”

“Alright, fine,” McCree replies, dropping the butt of his cigarillo on the ground and crushing it under his boot. “Don’t say I never do anything for ya.” He turns and makes his way over to the door, then gives Genji one last glance before walking in.

Winston is probably in his lab, so McCree pushes open the door to the stairwell and starts heading down the stairs. _What a night_ , he muses, and as he replays the events in his head, he realises that he never expected Genji’s brother to actually show up. All these years, he’d been nothing but a name and a blurry figure, and McCree thought it would always remain that way. But now that he’s here, he’s not sure what to think.

He presses a finger to the side of his mouth and winces. It’s going to bruise. That shouldn’t be a good thing but McCree can’t help but smirk. He’d been itching for some action and he definitely got some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, I hope you guys liked this chapter :)  
> Come hang out on Twitter @ [ShivaStormrage](https://twitter.com/ShivaStormrage)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again everyone for the support so far <3  
> Make sure you read the tags because the more angsty stuff applies in this chapter!
> 
> Thank you [KingMobUK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingMobUK) for betaing and putting up with my shit XD

Hanzo drops his bag on the floor and looks around the room. The walls are an industrial white, same as the hallway, and the floor is covered in grey vinyl tiles. There’s a single bed against the back wall in the far left corner. It’s covered with a blue comforter – the only touch of color in the room. Next to the bed are a small night table and a wooden dresser, and to the left of that is a door that leads to what Hanzo guesses is a bathroom.

The bedroom is small but infinitely better than the shabby motels and bug-infested safe houses he’s stayed at for the past ten years. Something inside him immediately screams that he shouldn’t be here, that this is a mistake. _You do not deserve this hospitality._ He shakes his head, doing his best to smother the voice. _Genji is alive_ , he reminds himself. If he repeats it enough, maybe he’ll eventually believe it.

He walks over to the small window near the foot of the bed and opens it, letting the cool breeze soothe him. The lighthouse is visible from here and Hanzo watches as the beam of light circles around it, illuminating the cliffside, then the sea. It’s a nice view, but there’s no point in appreciating it – this is temporary. He only came here to see Genji after their encounter in Hanamura; to make sure it hadn’t been a trick. His eyes had told him that the man in front of him was his brother, but his mind was not convinced. He’d watched Genji die every night in his dreams for the past ten years – how could he be alive?

Hanzo sighs and turns away from the window. To his left is a small closet that protrudes from the corner and next to it is a mini fridge. He supposes the latter will come in handy – he intends to avoid the common areas as much as possible. Across from him beside the door is a work desk that he decides will serve as a table, since the room lacks a proper one. All that’s missing is a hot plate and a teapot. A foolish thought, considering the last time he had the luxury to brew proper tea was a decade ago. Having a decent room doesn’t mean he can allow himself to get comfortable. _This is temporary._

A sudden yawn reminds him that he should probably get some sleep, so he goes to retrieve his bag and empties the contents on the bed: a spare kyudo-gi and hakama, a black t-shirt, a pair of grey sweatpants, socks, boxer briefs, a flask of water, a straight razor, scissors, a comb, a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and a first aid kit. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should unpack or leave everything ready for a quick exit. On one hand, having everything scattered around the room is reckless, but on the other, Genji assured him that he was safe here. Which reminds him: the door code.

Turning around, Hanzo makes his way over to the panel next to the door and taps the screen. Three options appear: Athena, Lights and Temperature. Remembering Genji’s instructions, he selects the first option and is greeted by a robotic female voice.

“Welcome, Hanzo. My name is Athena. How can I be of assistance?”

Hanzo is slightly taken aback by the use of his first name but decides to ignore it. “Genji said I could ask you to change the code for the door.”

“Certainly,” Athena replies. “The current code is 1234. What would you like to change it to?”

The first thing that comes to mind is the only date he’s clung to for the past ten years: 0330. However, entering that every time he comes into the room might shatter what little sanity he has left. Now that he knows that Genji is alive, he should probably forget about that day and start focusing on things that used to matter, like Genji’s birthday: January 29th. He considers using that for the door code but remembers that the other agents must know about it, especially his best friend – the cowboy. Hanzo decides on his own birthday instead – he doubts anyone besides Genji knows it so it should be safe enough. “Please change it to 0310.”

“Understood. Just a moment.” A window with rapidly scrolling code pops up on the screen, before disappearing a few seconds later. “The code has been successfully changed to 0310. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, that will be all,” Hanzo replies. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

Hanzo waits a moment to make sure the AI is done talking, then he walks back to the bed and unslings his bow and quiver. He kneels down and slides them under the bed, making sure they’re within reach, just in case. He wants to believe that he’s safe here, but he knows better than to trust strangers. The cowboy had kept his promise of letting him see Genji, but only after tricking him into giving him back his gun. Hanzo frowns as the scene replays in his mind. The cowboy hadn’t seemed like much of a threat so he’d stupidly let his guard down.

Shaking his head, Hanzo gets up and starts folding his clothes. His head is swimming with questions. At least the main one has finally been answered: his brother really is alive. As much as he’d wanted to believe it after seeing him in Hanamura, all he’d seen were his eyes and the scars that surrounded them. Before Genji removed his visor, Hanzo hadn’t even been sure if the man in front of him was human, so finding out that it was his brother had spawned more questions than answers. What had his brother become? How was he still alive? Why had he suddenly shown up after ten long years? Where had he been all this time? And most importantly: how could he possibly believe that Hanzo deserved forgiveness after what he had done?

The smell of blood suddenly fills Hanzo’s nostrils and he gags, coughs, gags again. He tries to take a deep breath, but he feels like he’s going to vomit. He needs air. He manages to scramble to the window, but his knees give out and he has to hold onto the frame for support. Squeezing his eyes shut, he takes several small breaths through his mouth and tries to calm down, but it’s too late – the images are there too. Blood splatters onto the floor as steel slices through flesh and bone, and he can feel it on his skin, the warm stickiness dripping down his fingers and brow and chin. He can feel the sword in his hand, can feel the resistance as it cuts and tears, but everything is a blur and he can’t stop. All he hears is his own heartbeat and distant pleas of _anija_ and _yamete_ , and finally, his brain catches up and his eyes fill with tears, but he can’t still his hand as it plunges one final time, and suddenly, there is silence.

Hanzo opens his eyes. He finds the lighthouse again and tries to focus on it, but it only manages to make him dizzy, so he turns around and lets himself slide to the floor. Bringing his knees up to his chest, he lowers his head and takes several shaky breaths, trying to ground himself. After a moment, the tremors finally subside, only to be replaced by a wave of fatigue. He hasn’t slept much in the last few days and it looks like it’s finally caught up with him. Not that he expects to get much sleep after this but he can at least try.

He pushes off the floor and makes his way to the bed again. After putting his spare clothes away in the dresser, he puts the water flask on the night table and brings the rest of his things to the bathroom. He sets them down on the counter and stops to look at his reflection. He’s a mess – his eyes are bloodshot and puffy, strands of hair are falling out of his ponytail, and his skin is a pasty white color. Sighing, Hanzo quickly undresses and pads into the shower. The hot water is a welcome feeling – it soothes his overworked muscles and washes away the thoughts plaguing his mind. When he steps out a few minutes later, he feels like sleep might be on the cards, after all.

After walking back into the room, he puts on a fresh pair of boxer briefs, turns off the lights and slips into bed. It feels strange to think that Genji is in the room next door, like back at the castle. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine being back in his old room, as if the past ten years had never happened. _Genji is alive_ , he repeats like a mantra, and images from earlier slowly resurface: Genji running out of the building looking tired but happy, Genji smiling at him, Genji laughing as he bantered with the cowboy, Genji sitting next to him as they waited for his room to be ready, Genji patting his shoulder affectionately.

It had been a shock to see him without the armor he’d worn in Hanamura. Genji’s body was covered in scars and his legs and right arm had been replaced by robotic limbs, but he was clearly still human. That had been Hanzo’s biggest fear after their first encounter – what had his brother become? Hanzo now has the answer, but several questions still remain. _Not now_ , he tells himself. Now, he needs sleep. He focuses on Genji’s smile, his eyes, his hair that still looks the same as it did ten years ago. That last thought cheers him up significantly. He can’t really explain why but it does nonetheless.

– – –

Hanzo wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping, trembling and disoriented. The images are still fresh in his mind: Genji lying in a puddle of his own blood, looking up at him with tears in his eyes, like he doesn’t understand what just happened. His body has been torn to shreds and he opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a splutter of blood. He reaches up with his left hand, as if asking for help, but Hanzo bolts and never looks back. After a few seconds, Hanzo recognises the images for what they are: a nightmare. The same one he’s had every night for the past ten years. Only, this time, Genji looked different. His face was slightly older and parts of his body were metal. Hanzo frowns, confused, but suddenly, he remembers: he’s in Gibraltar. Genji is alive and he’s sleeping in the next room.

Relieved, Hanzo looks around and notices it’s light out, so he supposes he at least got a few hours of sleep. Sitting up, he stretches his back, rolls his shoulders, then slides out of bed. He realises he left the window open so he goes to close it but pauses to admire the view. The sea is even more beautiful in the daylight – if he can find a nearby overlook, it would be a nice place to meditate. With that in mind, he slides the window shut and makes his way into the bathroom.

He takes a quick shower, trims his beard, ties his hair up with his scarf, then picks up the clothes he left on the floor last night. He carries them through to the bedroom and stuffs them into an empty drawer, making a mental note to ask Genji about laundry. After dressing in his clean kyudo-gi and hakama, he puts on his boots and hovers by the bed for a moment, trying to decide if he should bring Storm Bow. His cautious side eventually wins out so he slings it on along with his quiver and puts on his yugake before leaving the room.

The hallway is quiet. Hanzo doesn’t know what kind of schedule the agents keep, but it’s Saturday, so he figures most of them must be sleeping in. He pulls his watch out of the side pouch on his obi and looks at the time. 8:23. He considers knocking on Genji’s door, but decides against it. There’s no rush, and besides, he’d rather clear his head first. Putting his watch away, he sets off towards the exit, but stops when he hears a noise behind him. He quickly turns around, only to see the cowboy walking out of his room a few feet away. _Just my luck_ , he thinks.

The man stops, looks him up and down, then tips his hat. “Howdy.”

Hanzo decides he doesn’t have time for this right now. He gives him a small nod, turns back around, and continues to the exit. The door slides open and Hanzo steps out, crosses the walkway. He stops in front of the building, considering his options. The comm tower is high, but it seems easy enough to climb and no one would bother him up there. Making up his mind, he climbs the wall all the way up to the roof and sits down facing the sea. He sets Storm Bow down to his left and looks around, taking in the view once again.

The wind up here is much stronger and the cool morning air makes him shiver slightly. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The breeze smells of salt water and the only sounds are the distant cries of seagulls and the waves crashing against the cliffside. A nice place to meditate, indeed. He shifts into seiza, rests his hands on his knees and focuses on his breathing. He stays like this for a long while, calm and at peace, until his stomach starts to protest. Hanzo realises he hasn’t eaten since before leaving Tokyo last night. With the time difference, it’s probably going on twenty-four hours.

He opens the front pouch on his belt and takes out a box of chocolate CalorieMate, grabs one of the foil packets and rips it open. He eats the first block, washing it down with sake, and as he’s about to start on the second one, he hears something on the side of the tower. A moment later, Genji appears, clad in track pants and a green hoodie.

“ _Mind if I join you?_ ” he asks in Japanese.

Hanzo nods and pats the ground to his right.

Smiling, Genji walks over and plops down cross-legged next to him. He stares at the sea for a moment, before turning to look at him. “ _Did you sleep well?_ ”

A simple question, unless peaceful nights are nothing but a distant memory. Genji doesn’t know about his nightmares and Hanzo decides he’s not ready to discuss them. He drops his gaze. “ _I slept… okay._ ” Technically not a lie. He did get a decent amount of sleep compared to other nights.

There is silence for a while and Hanzo can feel Genji’s eyes on him. His brother had always been good at reading him so there’s no doubt in his mind that he can sense his discomfort.

“ _Really, Hanzo?_ ” Genji says suddenly, his voice surprisingly amused. Hanzo looks back up and Genji points at the block of CalorieMate in his left hand. “ _There’s real food in the kitchen, you know._ ”

Hanzo bites his lip. “ _I do not want to impose._ ”

Genji laughs. “ _You are not imposing. You are welcome here._ ”

“ _That is not the impression I got,_ ” Hanzo says bitterly, thinking back to the way the cowboy and the gorilla had looked at him. To how they had thought he was a threat.

“ _Sorry about McCree,_ ” Genji replies, sheepish. “ _I might have… told him some unsavory things about you in the past, so that’s my fault._ ”

Hanzo has to stop himself from laughing at the absurdity. Genji makes it sound like he was being a bad brother for talking behind his back. “ _You had a right to._ ”

Genji shakes his head. “ _I was angry. I said a lot of things I should not have._ ”

A pang of guilt rises within Hanzo and he looks away, focuses on the lighthouse instead. “ _If only my crime was as trivial as words thrown around in anger._ ”

Genji says nothing, but Hanzo can hear him shift, and suddenly, there’s a hand on top of his, warm and comforting. “ _You need to stop beating yourself up, brother. I am here. Alive. You need to forgive yourself._ ”

“ _How can I forgive myself? I was about to be appointed as the new leader after our father’s death. I could have told the elders to let you be, but instead, I…_ ”

“ _You know as well as I do that our father’s death was not natural. They would have gotten rid of you too had you not done as they asked._ ”

“ _We could have run away!_ ” Hanzo cries out, turning back to him. “ _Do you think I have not considered every possible scenario in the past ten years!? There were plenty of things I could have done, but instead, I chose the clan over my own brother!_ ”

Genji studies his face for a second, before leaning over and pulling him into a tight hug. Hanzo stiffens, makes a half-hearted attempt at prying him off, but then he gives in and wraps his arms around his brother’s back. That’s when Hanzo realises that he _needed_ this. Seeing Genji alive was one thing, but having him close enough to feel his heartbeat suddenly fills him with a maelstrom of emotions he hasn’t felt in over a decade. His eyes sting, and when he closes them, he can feel tears rolling down his face.

They stay like this for a while, until Hanzo reluctantly pulls away to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand.

There’s a bright smile on Genji’s face. “ _See? I’m okay. Stop worrying about what could have been. We are here now. Together._ ”

“ _Together,_ ” Hanzo repeats under his breath, remembering Genji’s offer to join him. If he’s being honest with himself, there’s nothing he wants more than to stay with Genji and fight by his side, but there are still too many questions that remain unanswered. He decides that now is a good time to fix that. “ _How did you survive?_ ”

Genji’s expression turns wistful and he looks away for a moment, before turning back to him. “ _Overwatch was keeping tabs on the clan at the time, and some agents happened to be there when… well… They saw you run out of the castle covered in blood so they went to check and found me. They carried me to their transport, Dr. Ziegler stabilised me and they immediately flew me to their headquarters in Switzerland._ ”

Hanzo nods slowly, taking in the information. “ _So you joined Overwatch after they saved you?_ ”

“ _Not exactly,_ ” Genji replies, shaking his head. “ _I was in Blackwatch, the covert ops division. With McCree, actually._ ”

“ _The cowboy._ ”

Genji smiles. “ _Yes. You should be nice to him. He helped me a lot after my recovery._ ”

Hanzo thinks back to the events of last night. He’d arrived at the Watchpoint late in the evening and found it deserted, so he’d decided to wait until morning to see if Genji would make an appearance. However, the cowboy had suddenly shown up and reached for his gun as soon as he’d laid eyes on him. He’d then accused Hanzo of being here to kill Genji.

“ _I am sorry I punched him,_ ” Hanzo says, not really feeling guilty about it.

Genji waves a hand. “ _It’s okay, he probably deserved it._ ”

Hanzo almost smiles at that. “ _He did._ ”

Genji laughs. “ _Seriously, though, if you are going to be staying here for a while, you should make an effort to talk to the others. Not sit alone up here eating CalorieMate._ ”

The second block is still in his hand, untouched, and it looks even less appetising now. Hanzo can’t deny that Genji’s right, but it’s a lot for him to process. “ _I will think about it._ ”

“ _They may be wary of you for a while, but they will come around. It’s just… all they know about you is what you did to me. They are just being protective._ ”

Hanzo knows that was meant to make him feel better, but it just ends up making him feel worse. How can he face those people knowing that they see him as the man who tried to kill his own brother? He could deal with the cowboy hating him, but the thought of all of them knowing what he did makes him feel sick and suddenly, he can smell blood again. He immediately looks away and focuses on his breathing, refusing to break down in front of Genji. Thankfully, it works this time, but when he looks back at Genji, he can see concern in his eyes.

“ _Are you alright?_ ”

 _No, I am not_ , Hanzo wants to say, but he’s not ready for this conversation. “ _I will live,_ ” he offers, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

Genji seems unconvinced, but doesn’t press further. Instead, he rises to his feet and makes a show of stretching his back. “ _Well, time to go for my morning run._ ”

Hanzo knows his brother well enough to hear the unspoken words: _I will leave you alone._ As much as Genji wants him to join Overwatch, he clearly knows that pushing him too much won’t accomplish anything.

They look at each other for a moment, understanding, and then Genji nods and disappears down the side of the tower. Hanzo turns his attention back to the sea. He finally got some answers, but there are still many things he doesn’t understand. What is Overwatch doing here? He’d heard of its dissolution several years ago, of the Petras Act rendering their activities illegal. Has Overwatch been operating underground this whole time? Was Genji a part of it? Did they just reform? Is that why Genji decided to reach out to him?

Sighing, Hanzo decides it doesn’t matter. He owes Genji a debt he can never repay so he fully intends to remain here as long as possible, but he has no intention of joining Overwatch. Not if it means having to work with people who see him as a monster.

 _That is exactly what you are_ , the voice in his head tells him, and he knows it’s the truth. He lets out a wry laugh, picks up his gourd and takes a long drink. Perhaps he should subject himself to those stares, after all. _This is what I deserve._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I chose the birthdays using the card sprays from the game. Hanzo is a King of Diamonds, Genji is a Jack of Clubs and McCree is a Jack of Spades, so I picked March 10th, January 29th and February 1st respectively using the info on [this website](https://thecardsoflife.com/cardology-birthday-chart/).
> 
> Again, I'm on Twitter @ [ShivaStormrage](https://twitter.com/ShivaStormrage) :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind words so far, you guys are the best :)  
> Sorry this chapter took so long to write!
> 
> As usual, thank you [KingMobUK](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingMobUK) for betaing <3

McCree leans on the railing and looks around the base. Still no sign of Hanzo since he ran into him this morning. The bastard probably doesn’t want to be found. Doesn’t matter; it’s not like he has anything to say to him, anyway.

Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and focuses on the warmth of the sun on his face. Anything to take his mind off his throbbing head – he hadn’t realised how hard he’d hit the ground last night, likely because he was focused on not getting killed. He’d been exceptionally alert after leaving the bar, but he’d still managed to lose his focus for a split second and forget where his damned gun was. Had it been an actual assassin, he’d be dead.

The rest of the encounter plays out in his mind again. As much as he wants to forget about it, it won’t leave him alone, reminding him of his failure over and over. Some things stand out more than others: the gold scarf flapping in the wind, the strong arm against his throat, the feeling of panic as he struggled to breathe, the flash of pain as the fist hit his jaw, Hanzo’s face as he sat on top of him, his half-exposed chest, his dragon tattoo. Sometimes, a new detail pops up that he hadn’t quite caught in his restless state, like Hanzo’s glove – it had metal knuckles. No wonder his lip is busted.

McCree brings a hand up to his mouth and winces. He’s not sure why he keeps doing that – he knows it’ll hurt and he knows it’ll piss him off, but he can’t help himself. He still can’t believe how helpless he was, squirming and writhing against the concrete, and the fact that it was Hanzo fucking Shimada makes it a hundred times worse. So much for all that talk about kicking his ass if they ever met. _You talk big, kid._

“Shut up,” McCree mutters under his breath.

_You fucked up._

“I know.” He doesn’t need an old ghost to tell him that. He fucking knows. Sighing, he takes out his lighter and the rest of the cigarillo from this morning and lights up. A smoke probably won’t do much about his self-loathing but it’ll at least calm him down.

For some reason, he can’t bring himself to hate Hanzo and that pisses him off even more. He used to hate him for what he did to Genji, but that was when he was merely an idea, a villain he’d created in his head. Hating the man is much harder, even though he has every reason to after what happened last night.

 _At least I outsmarted him,_ McCree tells himself, thinking about how he called Winston out instead of Genji, but even that’s not as satisfying as it should be. On the contrary, he almost feels bad about it now, which makes no sense; he was only protecting Genji. Even more puzzling is the fact that he covered for Hanzo in the meeting this afternoon.

_I must be losin’ my mind._

The sound of the door sliding open snaps him out of his thoughts and he looks over to see Genji staring at him, arms crossed.

“What?” McCree asks, even though he knows exactly what Genji is going to say.

“You lied,” Genji says, unimpressed.

McCree huffs a laugh. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Genji walks up to him and points at the bruise on the side of his mouth. “You did not get that from a fight in town. It was Hanzo.”

McCree just shrugs, taking a drag and slowly exhaling the smoke. “What’s your point?”

“Why did you lie to them?”

“You saw their reaction last time. No need to add to that.”

Genji quirks an eyebrow. “If I recall, you had the worst reaction out of everyone.”

“Yeah, well… A fella can have a change of heart. Don’t get me wrong, your brother’s an asshole, but I’m pretty sure hurting you is the last thing he wants.”

After a brief sceptical look, Genji smiles. “I’m glad you finally agree. What changed your mind?”

“It’s just…” McCree pauses. He’s always been good at reading people, but putting it into words is more difficult. “It’s like his whole demeanour changed when you showed up. One minute I thought he might shoot you dead as soon as you walked out, and then he’s lookin’ at you like, I dunno… his voice was different too. Almost sounded like he was happy to see ya.”

“Almost?”

McCree shrugs again. “Hard to tell with a voice like that.”

Genji laughs. “His voice was always like that. I guess I’m used to it.”

“A kid with that voice must have been somethin’.”

Rolling his eyes, Genji hoists himself up to sit on the railing. “Anyway, thank you for covering for him. You did not have to do that.”

“It’s nothin’. I mean, I can’t have people knowing your brother kicked my ass, now, can I?”

Genji chuckles. “What happened exactly?”

McCree looks down at the tarmac below and shakes his head. He takes another drag from his cigarillo and holds the smoke in for a few seconds, before blowing it out. “Don’t really wanna talk about it.”

_Don’t need someone else tellin’ me how useless I am._

“He told me he punched you,” Genji says, matter-of-fact.

“Well, that’s kind of obvious, ain’t it?”

“He said you deserved it.”

McCree sighs, thinking about how he’d literally called Hanzo a murderer to his face. “Look, maybe I said some shit I shouldn’t have but he wasn’t exactly bein’ friendly.”

Genji hums. “What did you say?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“He wants to be left alone.”

_You don’t say._

“Well, so do I.”

There’s silence for a while, which used to be normal in Genji’s presence, but the new Genji is more talkative, and McCree suddenly wonders if he left. He glances to his right – Genji’s still there, sitting on the railing, looking at him. “What?” McCree asks, feeling scrutinised.

“What happened to you?”

McCree wants to ask him what he means by that, but he already knows. He’s not the same man he was back in Blackwatch. The others see it too, they just won’t say anything.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he counters. Genji’s changed a lot too, but it seems like the past seven years have had the opposite effect on him.

Genji shakes his head. “I already answered that question.”

That’s true. But still, how does someone go from such an extreme to the other? If the old Genji is still in there somewhere, he’s hiding it well. But now that McCree thinks about it, the old Genji was just the result of what happened to him; the Genji sitting here now is probably close to what the _real_ old Genji was like.

McCree looks away again, plucking the cigarillo from his lips to tap off the ash. “That don’t mean I owe you an answer.”

He hears Genji sigh and jump off the railing, and then there’s the sound of the door opening and closing. He’s alone again.

His thoughts go back to the meeting Winston had called after lunch to update everyone on the Hanzo situation. Angela, who’d been supportive of Genji the other day, had seemed more concerned this time, telling everyone to be careful around Hanzo because she didn’t want them to end up in the medbay. Her eyes had then fallen on McCree’s bruised mouth and she’d given him a knowing look, to which he’d replied by saying he’d gotten into a fight in town. Winston was probably the only one to buy his story, and he’d scolded him for leaving the Watchpoint without permission.

McCree’s still not sure why he took the fall for Hanzo after last night, but for reasons he can’t explain, part of him feels like he did the right thing. Now he can only hope it won’t come back to bite him in the ass.

– – –

McCree spends the rest of the afternoon walking around, hoping to find Hanzo, to no avail. The Watchpoint is pretty big, but there’s only so many places he could be hiding. The outbuildings are all locked and he’s pretty sure Hanzo doesn’t have access, and unless Hanzo is purposely moving around to avoid him, it doesn’t look like he’s outside either. Not on the ground, at least. If last night is anything to go by, he’s probably on a roof somewhere.

Stopping behind the radar array, McCree sits on a rock by the edge of the cliff and looks at a tanker moving slowly up the strait. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long sigh. Why does he care so much about Hanzo? _I don’t,_ he tells himself, and it’s mostly true, but there’s this part of him that refuses to let go. At first, he thought he was just bitter about getting his ass kicked, but now, he’s curious. Curious about the kind of man Hanzo was before everything. Curious about what drove him to nearly kill his own brother. Curious about the kind of guilt he carries.

McCree scoffs. He’s no stranger to guilt. It’s an ugly thing that gnaws at the mind and soul until there’s nothing left. Guilt is what pushed him to work on himself after joining Blackwatch, what made him become a bounty hunter a couple years after going underground, but it’s also what almost made him decline Winston’s offer, what stops him from facing the others. If he’s this messed up from killing strangers, he’s not sure he wants to know how Hanzo feels. But is there really a difference? Is killing your own family really worse than killing someone else’s?

He looks down at his prosthesis and the nausea hits him again. “Fuck,” he mutters, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. This shit always happens when he thinks too much – his mind suddenly goes back to that day and he can hear the gunshot, hear something hit the ground next to him, followed by blood, so much blood. Pain doesn’t register until his mind catches up, understands what just happened. The rest is a blur: panic, anger, embarrassment, fear, but mostly, guilt.

It never ends – guilt makes him think, thinking triggers this bullshit, and this bullshit reminds him why he feels guilty in the first place. But now’s not the time. _Now’s not the fucking time._ He needs to breathe, calm down, then he needs a fucking drink.

After a moment, the nausea finally recedes. McCree gets up, walks around the building, up the stairs and across the walkway. The door opens when he approaches and he’s relieved to find the corridor empty. He goes straight to his room, pours himself a glass of bourbon and downs it in one swig. He pours himself another and does the same, trying to ignore the burn in his throat, then decides it’s enough for now – it’s way too early to pass out. Besides, he’s hungry.

He takes out his phone and checks the time. 17:48. Probably worth checking if someone made food. Walking out of his room, he makes his way into the mess hall to find it pretty busy. Genji and Angela are sitting at the long table near the entrance. Angela notices him first, then Genji turns to look at him and nods to the seat on his right. McCree strides over and sits down, before looking around the room.

Reinhardt is in the kitchen, cooking something while singing along to some god-awful music – probably Hasselhoff. Torbjörn is at the small table in the far corner, tinkering with some kind of contraption, while Winston and Lena are at the other end of the long table, having what appears to be a serious conversation. As expected, Hanzo is nowhere to be found.

“Where’s your brother at?” McCree asks, turning to Genji.

Genji simply shrugs, taking a sip of whatever’s in his glass – looks like Coke, but knowing him, it’s probably something gross, like Dr Pepper.

“What do you want with him?” Angela asks, an edge to her voice. McCree looks at her. Her arms are crossed and she’s giving him that look she always gives him when she thinks he’s doing something wrong.

“Why do you care?” he counters.

Angela huffs. “Do you really expect me to believe that it wasn’t Hanzo who gave you that bruise? Come on, Jesse. In all your time in Blackwatch, when did a civilian ever manage to hit you?”

McCree sighs. “Okay, so what? You afraid he’s gonna kill me or somethin’?”

“No, but--”

“Then why do you care?”

“Were you not listening at the meeting earlier? If you get hurt, _I’m_ the one who has to patch you up. It was only a split lip this time, but we don’t know what he might do if--”

“So you’re worried he might beat me up ‘cause then you’d have to do your job, got it.”

Angela gapes at him. “Excuse me?”

 _Too much,_ McCree chides himself, and a glance at Genji confirms it. “Sorry,” he mutters, but the damage is done and the silence that follows is too uncomfortable to bear. Sighing, he gets up from his seat and makes his way into the kitchen.

Reinhardt seems to hear him walk in despite the music and he turns around, beaming. “Good timing, my friend! This is just about ready.” He turns back to the pot he’s been stirring and starts singing along with the song again, “Ooout of tiiime, running in and out of time.”

Resisting the urge to turn the volume down, McCree steps closer and takes a look inside the pot. It’s some kind of stew again, but it looks different from last time. Smells different, too. “What’s that?” he asks, expecting another name he won’t be able to pronounce.

Reinhardt stops singing and smiles again. “This, my friend, is called Pichelsteiner! It has beef, pork, lamb, and plenty of vegetables so you kids can grow big and strong like me!” He then slaps McCree on the back – a bit too hard – and bursts out laughing.

McCree winces. _Too loud._

“Would you like to do the honors?” Reinhardt asks, pointing at the stack of trays on the counter.

“Um…” McCree frowns, considering. He looks over at Angela and Genji. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but from their body language, he can tell they’re talking about him. “Actually, I ain’t feelin’ too hot,” he replies, turning back to Reinhardt. “Do you mind if I take some back to my room?”

“Of course not!” Reinhardt says, immediately grabbing a bowl and filling it up, before handing it to McCree. “Here you go.”

McCree accepts it with a small nod. “Much obliged.” Taking a step to the right, he grabs a spoon from the cutlery drawer and puts it on a tray along with his bowl, before heading towards the exit. “Have a good night.”

“Let me know how you like it!” Reinhardt calls after him, loud enough for the whole room to hear.

“Will do!”

Leaving the mess hall, McCree walks the short distance back to his room, inputs his code and steps inside. After setting his food down on his desk, he takes off his hat and serape and pours himself another glass of bourbon. He sips it slowly as he sits down, taking the time to actually savor it before swallowing. It’s almost enjoyable, except for the fact that Reinhardt’s awful music is stuck in his head. Booting up his computer, he puts on the first country playlist he finds and sighs in relief. Now he can eat in peace.

He’s already forgotten what the stew is called, but it’s really good. Come to think of it, he can’t remember a single dish Reinhardt ever made that he didn’t like. McCree vaguely wonders where he learned to cook like that, considering he was in the military pretty much his whole life.

The food is gone in record time, and after finishing his bourbon, McCree is struck by an intense wave of fatigue. Seizing the opportunity to maybe get some decent sleep, he turns his computer off and goes to lie down, pausing only to kick off his boots. As usual, closing his eyes causes his mind to wander, the repressed thoughts stark and insistent in the darkness: thoughts about Hanzo and what he’s up to, about recurring nightmares, about how going to sleep at 6 PM is going to fuck up his sleep schedule again. However, any stress he might have felt is dulled by how goddamned tired he is, and suddenly, sleep takes him.

– – –

When McCree opens his eyes again, the room is dark. He fumbles blindly for his phone, but it seems it’s not on the night table. Yawning, he gets out of bed and walks over to the desk. He finds his phone next to the empty bourbon glass and double-taps the screen. It’s 1:25, which means his sleep schedule is properly fucked, as expected. With a sigh, he turns the light on and goes for a quick shower, before putting on a fresh set of clothes. He considers going for a smoke, but decides that food sounds better, so after donning his hat and boots, he grabs the empty bowl and makes his way to the mess hall.

As he walks in, he goes to flick the light switch, but stops when he notices a faint light coming from the kitchen. Curious, he takes a few steps forward, and that’s when he sees it: Hanzo is standing in front of the open fridge, unmoving, like a deer in headlights. After a moment, Hanzo looks at him over his shoulder but still doesn’t move. The whole situation feels extremely strange for some reason, and McCree’s not sure if he should say something or just wait.

Several more seconds pass and Hanzo still hasn’t moved so McCree decides to break the ice with a tip of his hat. “Howdy.”

As if set off, Hanzo closes the fridge and turns around. “I was just leaving.”

“Bullshit,” McCree says, not missing the way Hanzo is avoiding eye contact. He’s clearly lying.

After more silence, Hanzo suddenly moves, but as he goes to walk past him, McCree catches his wrist with his left hand. Hanzo immediately jerks his arm away in an attempt to shake him off, but seems to realise how strong of a grip his metal hand has.

“Let go,” he hisses, glaring up at him.

McCree can’t help but smirk. Hanzo is nowhere near as intimidating when he doesn’t have him pinned to the ground, and the way he’s trying to stare him down despite being several inches shorter is almost cute.

“Or what?” McCree asks, unable to contain a chuckle. “You gonna hit me again?”

Hanzo doesn’t answer, only keeps glaring.

McCree sighs. “Look, if you’re hungry, grab somethin’. It’s there for everyone.”

“I have my own food,” Hanzo replies, averting his eyes.

 _Yeah, that’s why you were goin’ through the fridge,_ McCree wants to retort, but he doesn’t feel like arguing. “Alright, suit yourself,” he says instead, letting go of Hanzo’s wrist.

As soon as he’s free, Hanzo bolts; he walks straight out of the mess hall without another glance or word, leaving McCree to stare at the empty doorway.

“Well, that was somethin’.”

– – –

The following night, McCree is sitting in the dark at the back of the mess hall, waiting for Hanzo to hopefully show up again. His afternoon stroll proved just as fruitless as yesterday, so after taking a nap in the evening, he decided to try his luck at a stakeout. It’s been almost two hours and he’s bored out of his mind, but he’s positive that Hanzo will make an appearance – he clearly wanted food last night, despite his claim to the contrary.

A few minutes later, McCree’s efforts pay off as Hanzo pads into the room, looks around, then goes straight to the fridge. After carefully opening the door, he glances over his shoulder – probably afraid to get caught again – then rummages for a moment before grabbing something and closing the door as quietly as possible. McCree has to keep himself from laughing at the absurdity: Hanzo Shimada, former yakuza, sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night like a goddamned raccoon.

Turning around, Hanzo leaves the room as quickly as he entered, and McCree makes his move. Keeping a safe distance, he follows Hanzo outside, down to the tarmac, then behind the comm tower. He watches as Hanzo walks along the cliff for a while, away from the base. When he passes the parking garage, McCree goes to follow, but Hanzo suddenly disappears behind the rocks. Confused, McCree picks up his pace and discovers a narrow pathway leading down the cliffside.

 _Well, I’ll be!_ He’d never noticed that path before, and he’s kind of impressed that Hanzo found it so quickly. _Resourceful bastard._

Shaking his head, he slowly makes his way down the path until he reaches a flat, rocky ledge overlooking the sea. McCree estimates it’s about thirty feet down from the clifftop – low and deep-set enough to be out of sight unless someone looks straight down. Hanzo is sitting near the edge, unwrapping what McCree guesses is the food he grabbed from the fridge. Either cold pizza or a sandwich; it’s hard to tell in the dark. The lights from the base don’t reach down here and the lighthouse is far enough that apart from the occasional sweep, it provides little more than a dim glow.

A rush of pride suddenly fills McCree as he realises that he beat the sneaky bastard at his own game. He smirks. “Whatcha eating there?”

Hanzo turns around, startled, dropping his food on the ground and reaching with his left hand for something that’s not there – presumably his bow. He seems to panic for about half a second, but almost instantly calms down, and then he looks at McCree’s boots with a frown. “How did you…?”

McCree laughs. “You think someone wears spurs every day and never learns how to keep ‘em from makin’ noise?”

Hanzo just gives him a sceptical look.

“I was in Blackwatch, remember? Covert ops, infiltration, all that stuff. Would’ve made a pretty shit agent if the bad guys heard me comin’.”

Raising an eyebrow, Hanzo glances down at his boots again, before looking back up at him. “Surely you jest. You did not wear those… _things_ on missions.”

“Sure did.”

Hanzo scoffs, looks away, shakes his head slightly. “Then you are even more idiotic than I thought.”

“Hey, now, I ain’t stupid,” McCree snaps. It’s one thing for Hanzo to insult his choice of attire, but he’s not a fucking idiot.

“‘Ain’t,’” Hanzo repeats in a poor imitation of his accent.

_Alright, that does it._

“What’s your fuckin’ problem?” McCree asks, stepping closer and causing Hanzo to spring to his feet, wary. “You think you’ve got me all figured out just from the way I dress and speak?”

Hanzo says nothing, just glares up at him like he did in the kitchen last night, and goddamn it, it’s still cute. But now’s not the time for that. Hanzo looks like he’s ready to fight him and that’s not what he came here for. He needs to defuse this.

Sighing, McCree takes a step back and crosses his arms. “Look, I ain’t lookin’ for a fight. I just wanna talk.”

Hanzo seems to relax a bit, but still looks cautious. “Why?”

“Why not?”

“We are not friends.”

McCree laughs. “Not with that attitude.”

“I did not come here to make fr--”

“Yeah, yeah,” McCree cuts in. “I heard you when you told Genji, but like he said, if you’re gonna stay here, you can’t keep actin’ like this.”

Hanzo huffs. “That is none of your business.”

McCree rolls his eyes. _So fuckin’ stubborn._ “Look, darlin’…”

“Do _not_ call me that.”

“What? Darlin’?” McCree chuckles. “I call everyone that.”

“I do not care.”

_‘Course you don’t._

“Alright. What should I call you, then?”

Hanzo stares for a couple seconds, before looking down at the ground and crossing his arms. “Nothing. Just leave me alone.”

 _Predictable._ “Hanzo it is, then,” McCree decides for him. When Hanzo stays silent, McCree continues, “Look, _Hanzo_. I ain’t gonna pretend I know exactly what’s goin’ on between you and Genji, but I _do_ know he forgave you and he wants you here. The least you could do is pretend you give a shit.”

There is silence for a moment as Hanzo seems to ponder. Then he looks back up at McCree and says, “Are you finished?”

McCree laughs. _In one ear and out the other, then._ “Really? That’s all you have to say?”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Nor Genji, I heard.”

Hanzo suddenly looks sheepish and he averts his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it again when words don’t seem to form.

“Why’d you come here if you don’t wanna talk to him?” McCree asks.

After staying quiet for a few more seconds, Hanzo sighs and mutters something in Japanese.

“What’s that?”

“Leave me,” Hanzo replies, turning away.

McCree takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his face. _What a pain in the ass._ He’s annoyed, but not surprised. “Fine, be that way,” he says, turning to leave. “Not sure what I expected talkin’ to you, anyway.”

As he starts walking, Hanzo calls after him, “Wait!”

McCree stops. He looks over his shoulder. Hanzo has turned back around but is still looking off to the side. He looks embarrassed.

“Do not tell Genji about this place.”

_Well, now…_

With a smirk, McCree turns back to face him. “Alright. Two conditions.”

Hanzo finally looks at him again. “I am listening.”

“Number one: next time I talk to Genji, he better have somethin’ good to say about your attitude.”

Hanzo seems to consider for a moment, before nodding slowly.

“Good. Number two: I ain’t askin’ ya to eat meals in the mess hall with everyone, but if you’re hungry, eat at a table like a normal person instead of runnin’ off with leftovers like a thief.”

“Very well,” Hanzo says in a defeated tone.

McCree grins, tipping his hat. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya.” He starts to turn around, but pauses to look at the ground where Hanzo was sitting. Looks like it was pizza after all. “I’ll get outta your hair now. Enjoy your cold pizza.”

When Hanzo doesn’t answer, McCree can’t help the strong feeling of satisfaction that rushes over him. As he walks back up the path, he lights a cigarillo to celebrate. Better enjoy his victory while it lasts. It seems like the tables have turned, but for how long? He might have won this one, but Hanzo is stubborn – there’s no way he’ll let this slide. And for some reason, McCree has no problem with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ES9vRfs2rbA) is the song Reinhardt was listening to in the kitchen :)
> 
> Again, I'm on Twitter @ [ShivaStormrage](https://twitter.com/ShivaStormrage). Come say hi!


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